The Mourning Sexton (29 page)

He did the numbers on the Merle Schenker case. The demand was $1,450,000. Ninety percent of that was $1,305,000. But the award was $1,350,000—that is, more than ninety percent of the demand. No money wire transferred.

He flipped through the other status reports and wire transfers, doing random calculations. Every single one of them conformed.

The scam was simple. Simple and brilliant. Peterson Tire paid McCormick a kickback equal to fifteen percent of the difference between the actual award and ninety percent of the plaintiff's demand.

He stared down at the numbers on his yellow legal pad, struggling to grasp the economic impact of the scam.

Approximately seven hundred of the thousand cases had been resolved so far. If McCormick was shaving roughly $125,000 off each damage award—and that was a conservative estimate—the total savings to Peterson Tire already topped eighty-seven million dollars.

Eighty-seven million dollars

Stated differently, Peterson Tire and the judge had cheated the plaintiffs out of eighty-seven million dollars of compensation for their injuries.

Eighty-seven million dollars.

And still three hundred mini-trials to go. The final number would easily exceed a hundred million dollars.

He did the other calculation—the fifteen-percent-of-ninety-percent formula. He punched in the numbers and pressed the Equal button on the calculator. He stared at the result. The kickback scheme had already funneled into the offshore bank account of Felis Tigris LVII more than nine million dollars.

He pushed the buzzer. A few moments later, a young woman in a conservative skirt and blouse appeared at the door.

“Can I help you, Mr. Hirsch?”

He held up the full set of papers. “I need to have a copy of these made and hand-delivered to someone downtown. I'll pay all the charges.”

She reached for the papers. “I can make the copies now. I'll bring you back a form to fill out for the delivery. If we hurry we might still be able to get them delivered today.”

“No. I'd actually prefer to have them delivered tomorrow. If you have a sheet of paper, too, I'd like to write a note to include with the documents.”

“No problem, sir. I'll have these copied right away and bring you some paper.”

“I'd appreciate that. One more thing. I have the Swift code for a bank in Bermuda but I'm not sure of the bank's name. Would you be able to look that up for me?”

“Certainly, Mr. Hirsch. We have a Swift code directory online. I can get you that bank's name in a jif.”

The digital clock on the nightstand read 2:18
A
.
M
. Just over three hours before he had to wake for morning services.

He stared at the clock as it changed from 2:18 to 2:19 to 2:20.

At 2:21
A
.
M
., he threw back the covers and got out of bed. In his T-shirt and pajama bottoms, he padded into the small living room. The streetlamp outside the window faintly illuminated the room. He knelt in front of the bookcase, found the thick dictionary, and carried it back to the bedroom. He clicked on the nightstand lamp, squinting in the sudden brightness. When his eyes adjusted to the light, he flipped through the dictionary to the “F” listings. He found the page and moved his eyes down the column of words:

felicity

felid

feline

feline distemper

fell

fellah

No felis tigris.

He read the definition of “felicity,” which at least sounded like felis. The etymological information in brackets indicated that the word came from the Middle English word
felicite,
which in turn came from a similar Middle French word that in turn came from the Latin word
felicitas,
which in turn came from the Latin word
felix,
which meant “fruitful or happy.”

No help there.

He looked down the column to “feline”:

fe-line
adj
. [L
felinus,
fr.
Felis,
genus of cats, fr. L. cat]
1:
of or relating to cats or the cat family
2:
resembling a cat: as
a:
sleekly graceful
b:
SLY
,
TREACHEROUS
c:
STEALTHY
—
feline
n
—
fe-line-ly
adv
—
fe-lin-i-ty
n

Thus “felis” was the genus of cats.

Felis tigris.

He stared at the second word, sounding it out.

He flipped to the
T
pages. He ran his eyes down the column until he found the word:

ti-ger
n, pl
tigers
[ME
tigre
, fr. OF
tigre
fr. L
tigris
]
1:
a large and powerful South Asian and East Indian carnivorous mammal (
Felis tigris
or
Panthera tigris
) of the cat family having a tawny coat transversely striped with black. When full grown, it equals or exceeds the lion in size and strength
2:
a ferocious, bloodthirsty person.

CHAPTER 46

“M
r. Guttner on line three.”

Hirsch stared at the blinking button on the telephone console, his lips pursed. He lifted the receiver and pushed the button.

“What do you want?”

“I need to see you, David.”

The normally soothing purr had some growl in it.

“Why?”

“Something quite important has come up.”

“Oh? What?”

“I do not want to explain over the telephone.”

“Why not?”

“Christ Almighty, David.”

He waited.

At the other end, the sound of heavy breathing.

“Suit yourself, Marvin. Good-bye.”

“Wait. Don't hang up. Please, David. Please. Hear me out. This is of great consequence. Trust me.”

“Trust
you
? Are you out of your mind?”

“Bear with me.”

“Why should I?”

“Because this concerns someone special to you.”

After a moment, Hirsch said, “Who?”

“Not over the telephone, David. We need to meet in person. As soon as possible. How quickly can you come to my office?”

“Why don't you come here?”

“That will not work. I need to show you certain items. I have them here in my office.”

“Bring them along.”

“I cannot do that.”

“Why not?”

“You will understand when you see them.”

Hirsch checked his watch. Almost a quarter after one. His meeting with the U.S. attorney was at four.

“I'll be there by two.”

“Thank you, David.”

“Not in your office.”

“Pardon?”

“I'm not going any farther inside your law firm then the reception area. We can meet in that big conference room on the main floor. The one with all the glass. Just you and me, Marvin. You better be seated in there waiting when I arrive. If not, I'll get right back on the elevator and leave.”

Hirsch gestured toward the glass-walled conference room behind the receptionist.

“He's waiting for me.”

“Then you must be Mr. Hirsch.”

“I am.”

She turned to look back. Marvin Guttner was seated at the head of the conference table and gazing out the window as he talked on his cell phone. There was a large envelope on the table in front of him. He was drumming his fingers on it. Next to the envelope was what appeared to be a remote control device. Guttner swiveled back around, saw Hirsch, and gestured for him to come in.

“I guess you can go right in, Mr. Hirsch.”

Guttner was folding up his phone and getting to his feet as Hirsch entered the room. The conference table seemed as a long as a bowling alley.

“Good heavens, David,” he said as Hirsch approached, “what happened to your arm?”

“How 'bout we save some time and cut the crap, Marvin. You already know what happened to my arm.”

Guttner frowned but said nothing. His gaze took in the bandage above Hirsch's eyebrow, the slight limp, and the gauze wrap on his right hand. Hirsch took a seat on the far side of the conference table. He was facing the reception area, his back to the outside window.

“I don't have much time,” Hirsch said to him. “Tell me why I'm here.”

“Fair enough, sir.”

Guttner leaned forward and rested his massive arms on the table in front of him. “The people I represent have—”

“Who are they?”

“They wish to remain anonymous, David. At least for now. They have advised me that you are in possession of a packet of materials of great interest to them.”

“What kind of materials?”

“Ah, I'm afraid they haven't provided me with those details.”

“What makes them think I have this packet?”

“It seems that they have had you under surveillance. From what they have observed, you placed those materials in a safe-deposit box at your bank on Monday afternoon. You inspected them again yesterday afternoon but left them there.”

“How do they know that?”

“They informed me that you went into the bank with a, well, with what appeared to be a tool box on Monday but left with nothing in your hands. You returned on Tuesday with no briefcase and left again with nothing in your hands. Unless you threw the materials out while you were at the bank, they should still be in there.”

Hirsch kept his expression neutral. He'd planned his entrances and exits at the bank both days on the assumption that he was under surveillance. He'd hoped to increase his chances of survival if they thought there was only one copy of the materials, and that that one copy was still in his safe-deposit box.

“You have made no copy, correct?”

“Not as of yet,” Hirsch said, spacing the words to make it sound like a warning.

“Excellent, David. That simplifies matters enormously. Do not make a copy. That is critical. The people I represent want those materials, but only if they have the sole copy. Otherwise, no deal. On that basis, they have asked me to negotiate the transaction with you. I can assure you that they are willing to pay you a handsome sum for those materials.”

Guttner paused.

Hirsch said nothing.

“A very handsome sum, David. Seven figures is not out of the realm of possibility. Such a sum could be quite advantageous for someone in your position, especially with your not insubstantial financial obligations. I should think that the years since your release from incarceration have not been prosperous ones for you.”

“The documents aren't for sale, Marvin.”

Guttner smiled. “Ah, well. I suppose I am not surprised to hear you say that. Puzzled perhaps, but not surprised. Indeed, I warned them that pecuniary incentives might have little appeal to you. I explained to them that you appear to have developed a most unusual obsession with matters surrounding the life and the death of one Judith Shifrin. So they suggested to me, in the words of Don Corleone, that I make you an offer you can't refuse.”

Guttner leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin as he studied Hirsch.

“Well, David, I believe I can make you such an offer. I propose to trade that packet of materials in your safe-deposit box for the reputation and the career and perhaps even the freedom of your dear friend and mentor.”

“I'm not following you.”

“I am saddened to report my discovery of some distressing evidence of professional malfeasance on the part of Seymour Rosenbloom.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Are you familiar with the term
chaser
?”

“Somewhat.”

“Then you know that chasers occupy a shady and unseemly niche in the personal injury practice. They literally chase the ambulances. They cruise the highways with police radios on, listening for accident reports, often arriving at the scene before the ambulance does. Other chasers lurk in the shadows of the hospital emergency rooms with handfuls of attorney-client agreements. Plaintiff's lawyers pay them a commission for every victim they get to sign one of those agreements. The practice is, of course, illegal, immoral, and in direct contravention of the rules of professional responsibility. Indeed, mere payment of a fee to a chaser is grounds for disbarment. Moreover, a pattern and practice of using chasers can result in criminal charges.”

“What does this have to do with Seymour?”

“Everything, David. It grieves me to inform you that your mentor has at least two chasers on his payroll.”

“He doesn't do personal injury work.”

“Exactly. And that means that cruising the highways or trawling the emergency rooms is hardly an efficacious strategy for finding prospective bankruptcy clients. He chose another tack.”

Hirsch watched as Guttner opened the flap on the manila envelope and slid out a three-page document.

“This is a photocopy of an affidavit by one of the managers of the credit union serving the local members of the auto workers union who toil away at the Ford and Chrysler assembly plants in town.”

He slid the document across the table. “Most disconcerting.”

Hirsch read through the affidavit of one Eugene Pruett, who identified himself as one of the loan managers of the credit union. Pruett stated that over the past eight years he'd referred close to two hundred auto workers experiencing financial problems to Seymour Rosenbloom. He further stated that he did so under an arrangement whereby Rosenbloom agreed to pay him one hundred dollars for every referral that resulted in the filing of a Chapter Seven or Chapter Thirteen proceeding.

Hirsch read through it again.

He looked up at Guttner. “How'd you get this?”

“How is not relevant here, David. The who and the where and the what are far more significant.”

“Cash payments?”

“That is the gentlemen's testimony.”

“Thus no record of the transactions.” Hirsch gestured toward the affidavit and shook his head. “He could be making this up.”

“I suppose one could raise that question if Mr. Pruett were the only participant asserting such charges. Here, however, I have a second affidavit. This one is from the credit manager at one of the riverboat casinos. He attests to a similar financial arrangement with Mr. Rosenbloom. One hundred dollars per case appears to be his going rate. Would you care to see a copy of his affidavit?”

“No.”

“Just in case you are still in doubt, David, we have obtained some additional corroborating evidence from Mr. Pruett. He was unusually accommodating. Apparently, he formed the belief that he was dealing with law enforcement agents. Accordingly, he agreed to wear a wire for his last monthly meeting with Mr. Rosenbloom. We have the entire transaction on videotape.”

Guttner reached into the envelope and removed a videocassette. He lifted the remote control device off the table, swiveled toward the wall behind him, and pressed a button on the remote. A panel in the wall slid up to reveal a television and a videocassette player. Guttner pushed another button and the television came on. All snow and static. He reached over and slid the videocassette into the player. He gazed back at Hirsch as the machine whirred and clicked.

“Let's have a look, shall we?”

The screen flickered several times before settling on an image of the front of the credit union. In the lower right corner was a digital readout of the time and date. Approximately four weeks ago. A middle-aged man came through the front door of the credit union. He had on a winter coat and was carrying a briefcase. He glanced toward the camera once as he moved across the street to the parking lot. The camera panned with him, revealing in the process that the cameraman was seated in the front passenger seat of a car.

“That is Mr. Eugene Pruett,” Guttner said.

Pruett emerged from the parking lot driving a Buick with a dented front fender. Guttner pointed the remote at the screen and pressed a button. The video jumped into fast-forward mode.

“The drive takes ten minutes,” Guttner explained.

Hirsch watched the screen as Pruett's car careened from lane to lane on the highway and then jerked and lurched from stoplight to stoplight on the city streets. Guttner slowed the tape to normal speed as Pruett turned into the parking lot at a Home Depot. The Buick drove down to the far lane, moving away from the camera as the tail car held back. Pruett pulled the Buick into one of the empty spots along the aisle. The microphone on his body transmitted the noise of the engine cutting off followed by the sound of the car door opening and closing as Pruett got out. He placed the briefcase on the ground beside him and leaned against the car, waiting, his right hand shading his eyes from the sunlight.

A few minutes passed, and then he reached down for his briefcase and straightened up. A familiar black Cadillac was coming down the lane toward him. The car stopped alongside Pruett, who opened the passenger door.

“Howdy, Gene.” Rosenbloom's voice. “How's it hanging?”

Pruett got in and closed the door. The Cadillac started down the aisle, as did the trail car with the cameraman.

“I'm doing just fine, Seymour.” Pruett spoke with a nasal drawl. “How about you?”

“Other than having a terminal disease and having to wear adult diapers so I don't piss in my pants, I couldn't be better.”

Gene gave a short laugh. “You sure haven't lost your sense of humor.”

“Yeah, I'm hoping to land a gig at the hospice someday. Maybe they'll need a sit-down comedian. Don't know about my audience, but I'll sure be rolling in the aisles.”

They were silent as Rosenbloom waited at the parking lot exit for a break in the traffic, his left blinker on. The surveillance car was directly behind the Cadillac now. You could see the backs of Rosenbloom's and Pruett's heads through the rear window.

After Rosenbloom pulled out of the parking lot, he said, “You in the mood for some frozen custard? I'm buying.”

“Sounds good to me.”

They drove several blocks, turned into the parking lot of a Dairy Queen, and pulled into the line of cars in the drive-thru lane. The tail car pulled into the line directly behind them.

There was silence for a few minutes as the Cadillac inched up one space, then another. The camera zoomed in close. The backs of the men's heads filled the screen.

“You had a good month, Gene.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“We were able to help out seven of your folks. Five Chapter Thirteens, two Chapter Sevens. We'll get them all back on their feet before too long. You earned yourself a nice fee.”